The Ride-Along: The Charlie-316 Series, #5

By Frank Zafiro and Colin Conway

The Tyler Garrett scandal rocked the Spokane Police Department two years ago. Now, a consent decree governs the agency with Washington D.C. directing its reform. It's a tumultuous time in the city, and public outcry over local and national events is high.

 

Change is in the air.

 

Officer Lee Salter is a third-generation cop who bleeds blue. Amid the departmental chaos, he does the only thing he can—be a good officer. That means showing up for every shift, responding to calls for service, and always doing the right thing. All the while, the Department of Justice and its local supporters hope to catch another officer in its net of reform.

 

Salter refuses to be that officer.

 

Melody Weaver is a teacher and activist who believes in a better way. Despite her demanding profession, she dedicates herself to the cause of reshaping policing in her city so that the terrible events—both local and national—can stop. To understand what needs to change, she needs to see the reality of the job up close.

 

That means a ride-along on the graveyard shift.

 

One night.

 

Two people.

 

And a nation's problems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: High Speed Creative, LLC
• Release date: Jan 29, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985204988

Book preview

Chapter 1

LEE

Officer Lee Salter rapped on the frame of the open office door. You wanted to see me, Sarge?

Sergeant Jamie Gelabert leaned back from her computer to look sideways at him. She waved him inside. Her short brown hair was slightly mussed as if she’d just run her fingers through it. Shut the door.

Lee did as he was told, racking his brain to think why he was getting called into the sergeant’s office, or what anyone could possibly be upset with him about. He came up empty, but that didn’t mean trouble wasn’t still waiting for him. It was the nature of the job these days.

Gelabert seemed to sense his trepidation. Relax. It’s not bad. Then, after a moment, she added, Well, not exactly.

Lee cocked his head slightly, unsure what to make of that. He waited dutifully for the sergeant to continue.

Gelabert spun in her chair to face him directly. You’ve got a rider tonight.

I had one last week. One of the mayor’s executive assistants—some woman named Jean.

I know. It’s not your turn in the rotation yet, but I need you on this one, Lee.

Why?

Gelabert rested her elbow on the desk. You know the chief is trying to open things up, right? With all that’s going on, he’s trying to make the department more transparent to the public.

All that’s going on. What an understated euphemism. The policing world was essentially on fire these days, more so than he’d ever seen in his fourteen-year career. Like always, some of the uproar centered on national incidents that somehow still had local repercussions.

But lately, Spokane had endured its share of controversial events as well.

You mean Garrett? Lee said. It’s like we can’t shake that stink.

Even though it happened more than two years ago, the community still reeled from the dark events surrounding the Tyler Garrett scandal. Garrett, a former police officer, was now serving a long prison sentence for murder. Chief Baumgartner had done everything he could to distance the department from him, but those efforts proved futile—the public remembered. It didn’t help that, throughout Garrett’s career, SPD featured him extensively in a public relations role. He’d literally been the poster child for the department. So when he broke bad, the connection was hard to sever in the public’s mind.

Sergeant Gelabert crossed her arms. I get the feeling the new mayor doesn’t want us to be rid of that stink. Not till she’s put her stamp on it anyway.

The new mayor, Margaret Patterson, had positioned herself as the one who would clean up the agency and make it ours again. She embraced the ongoing consent decree with the Department of Justice and praised DOJ’s efforts to bring the police department’s culture in line with today’s values.

Needless to say, the mayor wasn’t popular among those who wore the badge—Lee among them.

It doesn’t hurt her brand, Lee said, or make it harder to bargain with the union, either.

Gelabert puffed out her cheeks. Best to stay out of politics when you can, Lee.

I’d be happy to, if politics would stay out of my job.

She smiled thinly. Fair point. But the chief is on board with this mission of transparency, so we’re the ones who get to carry it out.

I saw something about the transparency thing on the news, he said. And Mundy had a councilman ride with him a couple of weeks ago, too.

Gelabert frowned. Monday Mundy, she muttered. That wouldn’t have been my choice.

Lee didn’t have to ask why. The perennially dour officer hadn’t seemed like a great candidate to him either.

Anyway, Gelabert said, that’s where things started. After all the council members and the mayor’s executive staff rotate through, it’ll open up wide to the public. No matter how you cut it, we’re going to see a lot more ride-alongs than we’re used to.

Lee reluctantly nodded, then he ventured, Is there any way you can get someone else for this one?

I can’t. This is important, Lee. I need you to take this one out, even though it’s not your turn.

Why me?

You’re a Salter. That name still has some recognition.

Only to other cops. What’s the real reason?

Gelabert took a deep breath and let it out in a slow exhale. This one isn’t exactly a friendly.

How so?

She’s a member of the PRI.

Lee stared at the sergeant, processing the information. The Police Reform Initiative was a citizen organization that had been overly critical of the police department for years. Up until the last few years, Lee had equated their presence to a bothersome mosquito—noticeable and annoying but not life-threatening. More recently, though, events on the national stage rippled into their own community, and local scandals propelled the committee’s profile significantly higher. Now the PRI was the leading voice in the call for radical reform of the Spokane Police Department.

After a few moments, Lee found his voice. Is it what’s-his-name? Their chairman?

Sergeant Gelabert shook her head. She’s a board member. Melody Weaver.

Know anything about her?

No.

Why is she even here? The PRI hates us.

She’s here because she can be. Council President Cody Lofton gave her his slot.

Lee snorted. Lofton was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A couple years back, many on the department thought he backed the blue. But now he was seen as the most anti-police member of the city council. Lee couldn’t imagine the arrogant man spending ten minutes in a patrol car, much less a ten-hour shift, so this move didn’t surprise him.

Supposedly, Gelabert continued, Lofton said he already knew everything he needed to know about the police department. So he sent a representative instead.

Perfect, Lee muttered.

The sergeant fixed him with a meaningful look. I probably don’t need to tell you that the chief has an eye on this one.

I bet.

The mayor, too.

Lee rolled his eyes.

Gelabert leaned forward and rested her elbows on her knees. Her gaze held his. I need to know I can count on you to do the right thing out there, Lee.

Of course, he answered automatically.

Good. And fair warning—she’s expecting a female officer.

A spark of hope flared in him. Then give her one.

Gelabert smiled indulgently. I would if I could. Between maternity leave, the flu, scheduled vacations, and days off, you’re the closest thing I’ve got.

To a female officer? What the hell does that mean?

Easy, tiger. It means that you can talk to people.

Lee didn’t like the answer, so he looked away and studied a Human Resources poster pinned to the wall. Its message was to encourage employees to come forward with reports of hostile work conditions. Lee smirked. His whole job was a hostile environment. Can’t she reschedule?

No. Gelabert’s firm tone signaled the end of the meeting, so Lee turned slightly and put his hand on the doorknob. He paused and looked back at the sergeant. She was already at work on the paperwork in front of her. Sarge?

Yes? she answered, without looking up.

What does that mean, do the right thing? What do you want me to do different? Put on a show or something?

Do what you normally do. Show her what patrol is really like.

That’s it?

The sergeant looked up then. That’s why I picked you for this detail.

All right.

Maybe keep her away from any drama, huh?

On patrol? That’s impossible.

You know what I mean. Just work your shift. She motioned with her hand. She’s waiting at the west doors.

Lee nodded slowly.

Just work my shift. Sure.

All right, he said, and turned to go.

Lee?

He glanced back toward the sergeant.

Good luck, she said.

She didn’t add that he’d need it, but Lee took her meaning all the same.

Lee stopped at the quartermaster closet to refill his supply of clear plastic bags for prisoner belongings and to get a new pocket notebook along with several cheap Bic pens. Then he slung his patrol bag over his shoulder and headed down to the west doors. As he walked, he first rolled up and then folded over the plastic bags. Once they were ready, he slipped them into the side pocket on his uniform pants and two others into the trauma plate pocket inside his protective vest. He was re-buttoning his shirt when he ran into Officer Matt Thornton on the stairs.

Hey, Matt, he said in a subdued voice. He and Thornton had an uneasy alliance, the kind forged when two people who otherwise disliked each other are forced to cooperate to accomplish a greater goal.

Lee, Thornton said coolly.

Lee started to brush past when Thornton said, There’s a rider waiting for someone outside the west doors.

I know. It’s me.

Have fun with that. She’s a real peach.

Lee slowed, then stopped and turned. Thornton stood smirking down at him, his muscular arms folded across his chest.

What’s that mean? Lee asked.

Thornton chuckled derisively. It means everything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law.

Do you know her or something?

I asked her if she needed any help, and she bit my head off. He pointed at Lee. You’re in for a fun night, pal.

Thornton cocked his thumb, then dropped it like a gun hammer while making a clicking sound with his mouth. Better you than me, though. He laughed before heading back upstairs.

Lee watched him go. Thornton was an asshole, no question. But that didn’t make him wrong. He could be in for a long, difficult night.

The early October air bit into him when he exited the west doors.

A woman stood on the sidewalk under the streetlight. Her arms were drawn tight into her, and she blew into her hands. Her purse was tucked under one arm. That, at least, was smart. Standing outside the police department should be one of the safest places in the city, but the reality was something different. Most cops were out in the field except during shift change. After hours, all the detectives and admin were gone, too. About fifty yards to the north, as part of the same city criminal justice campus, sat the jail entrance. Criminals were released from booking at all hours of the day and night. Most wouldn’t be foolish enough to commit a crime in the shadow of police headquarters, but that population had its fair share of idiots.

Are you Ms. Weaver? Lee asked as he approached.

She was about five-seven with a medium build. Her sandy blond hair was pulled back into a short ponytail. The dark blue Columbia brand jacket hung down mid-thigh.

I am, she said stiffly.

I’m Lee Salter. He held out his hand.

She took it briefly and gave it a perfunctory shake. Her fingers were cold.

They stood awkwardly for a moment. Lee adjusted the patrol bag on his shoulder.

Can we wait inside? Weaver asked. It’s cold out here.

He pointed north toward the motor pool. I need to grab my cruiser. You can come with or wait here.

She appeared confused. Wait. You’re who I’m riding with?

Lee nodded. I know you were expecting a female officer, but none were available tonight.

She watched his face for a few moments, her expression inscrutable. Finally, she said, I’ll come along.

Okay. Lee flashed his for-the-public smile.

She didn’t smile back.

Lee turned and started walking. She fell in beside him. Were you waiting long? he asked, trying to be polite.

A little while.

"They probably should have arranged to have you wait inside. It is getting cold at night."

It’s not a problem.

He stole a sidelong glance at her. Her expression wasn’t entirely neutral—it had the set of minor annoyance to it—but it wasn’t the demon’s snarl that Thornton’s description led him to expect. Still, she didn’t look like she was inviting conversation either.

Lee remained quiet for the remainder of the two-minute walk to the motor pool. Weaver strode alongside, also silent. Once inside the fenced area, he quickly located his assigned vehicle for the shift, unit one-nineteen. It wasn’t a dog, but it had some hard miles on it. Sergeant Gelabert could have given him one of the newer cars since he had a rider. Best foot forward, that sort of thing. He understood showing off a beater of a patrol car if the rider was a council member they were trying to convince of a budgetary need, but for a civilian?

Then again, maybe she just assigned him what was available. Graveyard always did get the runts of the litter. Power shift gobbled up all the good cars long before he and his cohorts came on duty.

Lee began his pre-flight routine, as he did every shift. First, he unlocked the driver’s door and swung it wide. He rested his patrol bag on the edge of the seat. Normally, his patrol bag sat on the passenger seat for easy access to all his gear. That wouldn’t work tonight, so he removed a few critical items and dropped them on the seat—flashlight, baton, and ticket book. Then he popped the trunk and hauled his bag to the rear of the car. He nestled it in tight next to the plastic tub already inside. The tub contained first aid supplies, blankets, flares, expandable road cones, safety vests, and a couple of stuffed animals wrapped in plastic. Lee lifted the lid to make sure everything was there before snapping it shut again.

Can you unlock this door? Weaver asked.

Lee peered around from behind the open trunk, realizing he’d overlooked including his rider in his routine. Waiting with a frown, she stood with her hand on the door latch.

He cleared his throat. In a minute. Could you come back here first?

Why?

I need to show you something.

Weaver let go of the door handle and moved toward him. When she was close enough to look inside, Lee opened the tub again. He detailed through the items inside, listing them quickly. Just in case we end up on a scene where we need any of this stuff, he explained, and pointed at the safety vest. Most likely, that’s the only thing you’ll need to worry about.

She nodded that she understood.

He thought about saying something about how unlikely it was that she’d even need the vest but changed his mind—less conversation seemed better at this moment.

Lee closed the trunk. He moved to the open driver’s door and disengaged the passenger’s lock for Weaver. While she settled into her seat, he pressed the release for the prisoner door. The knob was located inside the well of the front door, rendering the actual rear handle as nothing more than something to grab onto.

The back seat was covered in thick plastic. Lee lifted the bench-style seat cushion, which was loosely wedged into place. He searched quickly for any left-behind contraband from previous prisoners. It never failed to amaze him how easy it was for officers not only to miss items during a search but how suspects were then able to somehow get to those items while handcuffed and try to secrete them beneath the seat. Once, a prisoner even managed to wedge a knife up behind the seat back that wasn’t found until the car was being refitted.

Weaver turned in her seat to watch Lee work. What are you looking for? Irritation filled her voice.

Lee simply answered, Contraband, and continued with his search.

Satisfied that the prisoner compartment was free of discarded items, he pushed the seat cushion back into place and shut the door. He dropped onto the front seat, sitting with one leg in and one leg out of the car. He slid his key into the ignition and started the car. The throaty engine rumbled to life. Almost immediately, heavy metal music blared out of the speakers. A singer that Lee was certain had long hair— and probably a bandana—with a distinct screech lamented about watching some woman walk away from him on the dance floor. Baby, what’s wrong? he called after her. Bring that sweet ass back to my song!

Lee snapped off the radio. Sorry about that. Last guy must have been a metal head.

Weaver’s thin smile seemed forced. No problem.

I’m more of a country guy myself.

Weaver didn’t reply.

Lee cleared his throat. While the police radio and the mobile data computer (MDC) booted up, he turned his attention to the control panel. He pressed the shotgun release button and pulled the weapon from where it sat upright on the rack between the two front seats. Lee stepped back outside, keeping the shotgun pointed up until he was clear of the car. Then he directed the barrel toward the ground. He checked to make certain the magazine tube was full, then cracked the chamber open to ensure it was empty. It was.

Whenever he had a ride-along, Lee usually explained every step in the process of checking into a vehicle. He thought better of it now. Weaver seemed to not be interested in having an open dialogue, so he would let her sit and stew in silence.

Lee replaced the shotgun on the rack, swinging the metal clasp into place, and tugging on it to be certain the magnetic lock had engaged. He reached across to the glove box and opened it. Weaver pulled back as he did so. Lee stowed his ticket book inside then slammed it shut.

The flashlight holder, complete with charger, was mounted on the passenger side of the car, next to the computer terminal. Lee reached over to snap his mag light into place. Weaver’s leg moved away to give him space.

Lastly, before he shut the car door, Lee slid his baton into the foam holder on the car door that held it parallel to his seat.

All his movements were born of habit. His patrol car was his office, and he knew his way around it. Of course, tonight he had a guest in the already crowded space. That threw a wrench into his routine, but he adapted.

Once he shut the car door, Lee rolled down the window partway. A glance at the MDC told him it was still booting up, but the light chatter of the police radio filled the car. He adjusted the volume down. Turning back to the control panel, he selected a button, activating his overhead lights. The dimly lit motor pool was suddenly awash in red, blue, and white rotators. He switched to wig-wags. The less obtrusive alternating flash of white lights reflected against the wall of the nearby maintenance building.

Weaver’s head cocked as she watched the dancing lights on the nearby cars.

Lee quickly cycled through the siren settings, pressing each button in quick succession. A brief yelp, a quick wail, and a short burst from the air horn.

He glanced at his rider who followed his fingers with interest. Lee started to say something, but the MDC signaled it had finished booting up with an insistent beep. He logged in with his call sign and personnel number. While he waited for the login to register, he noticed Officer Colm Murphy outside. His platoon mate traipsed by the front of his car, his own patrol bag slung over his shoulder. Lee turned on the car’s headlights, then flashed the high beams, bathing his friend in bright whiteness.

Murphy held up a hand to block the light.

Sorry, Murph, Lee called out the open window. Just checking the equipment, you know?

Murphy turned toward him and grabbed his crotch, thrusting his pelvis forward like a crazed rock star. Check this!

Lee quickly shut off the headlights.

Murphy laughed and extended his middle finger before trudging on.

Lee shot a sideways glance at Weaver. The woman sat in her chair, her arms crossed, her face pinched in disapproval.

He cleared his throat. There’s a lot of stuff we gotta do to get ready. He turned his attention to the MDC system where he noted that he had a civilian rider. Some nights I feel like I’m getting into a fighter jet, but don’t let it intimidate you.

I’m not intimidated. My husband’s a pilot. The condescension in her tone was unmistakable.

Well, cool. He spun the MDC slightly on its swivel to show her the screen. This is the mobile data computer. All priority one and two calls are dispatched over the air, but pretty much everything else happens on this computer.

Weaver stared back at him, expressionless.

Priority one and two are emergency calls in progress where someone is in danger.

I know.

Oh. He gestured to the MDC. Then you probably know that this lets us see all the calls that are holding, check unit status, or run names and vehicle plates. It takes some of the less urgent tasks off the dispatcher’s plate, and we don’t have to wait as long to get information either. Lee punched in the command for unit status. He immediately saw several power shift and graveyard officers assigned to a vehicle collision downtown, all on perimeter duty. Collision investigators were also on scene.

Huh, he grunted.

What?

Lee hit a few keys. Looks like there was an auto-ped a few hours ago downtown.

Auto-ped?

Sorry, he said. That means a collision where a vehicle hit a pedestrian.

How badly hurt is the pedestrian?

Fatal.

That’s awful.

Yeah, Lee said absently. Our collision investigators will be out there for hours, taking measurements and conducting their investigation of the scene.

Since the intersection would be shut down and both streets were arterials, Lee made a mental note to take alternate routes to and from calls until the scene cleared. Luckily, his beat was further east and south, so it shouldn’t impact him much.

As he dropped the car into gear and pulled out of the motor pool, his MDC pinged. He glanced down and saw he was being dispatched to the collision to relieve one of the patrol units on traffic control for the auto-ped.

Lee typed a message directly to the dispatcher.

Neg, have rider.

He hit send and wound his way slowly through the parking lot. Just as he pulled onto the side street, his MDC beeped again. He looked down to see if the dispatcher had replied, but she hadn’t. However, he was taken off the call.

Lee checked unit status for the sector. He was the only graveyard unit clear. That meant the next one that logged in would get perimeter duty.

He decided to address the elephant in the car. So, Lee said as he turned onto Mallon Avenue, my sergeant said you were part of the PRI.

That’s right. I’m on the board. Her statement rang with self-importance. Is that a problem?

Lee sensed the defensiveness in her voice. He’d heard people answer like that a thousand times, and it always meant the same thing—gearing up for a conflict. He needed to defuse things before they got there. No. Should it be?

We’re not exactly on the best of terms with the police department.

True that.

In fact, I’ll bet he told you not to say anything or do anything.

Who?

Your sergeant.

She, Lee said, correcting her gently. And not exactly.

I’m sure, Weaver smirked. It’s no surprise. The department has a long history of being insular.

Insular?

Closed off from the public, she explained.

Lee detected a lecturing tone that he didn’t like. I know what it means.

Weaver shrugged but said nothing.

Maybe that’s true, he said, and maybe it’s not—

It’s true.

—but you’re here, right?

Weaver let out a short sigh. Yeah, I’m here.

That shows something, doesn’t it?

She hesitated, then nodded stiffly.

Are you scheduled for a half shift or the entire one? he asked, hoping. Five hours was a long time to endure with an unfriendly, but ten? Had to violate the prohibition against cruel and unusual punishment.

Full shift.

He tried to keep his tone bright. I always tell people that if they get tired and want to call it early, it’s no problem.

I’ll be fine.

Okay, no worries. All night, then.

Lee stopped at a traffic light. He thought of what he told his daughter when she had to go to the dentist, something strangely similar to how this shift was shaping up to be. But he knew that I know it sucks but just get through it wouldn’t send the right message to a police-hating activist, so he adapted.

Let’s make the best of it, he said.

To his right, Weaver scowled.

Lee resisted the urge to sigh. He looked down at the MDC and punched up the calls-holding screen. Maybe if he could find something to do, the night would pass more quickly.

Chapter 2

MEL

When they were a block from the police station, Melody Weaver looked to her husband. You’re not understanding—I have to do this.

Her husband shook his head. I’m telling you, you don’t.

Melody puffed her cheeks and blew out a sigh. You want me to go back on my word?

David kept his eyes on the road. "Be honest. I don’t think you agreed so much as Ellen convinced you."

Mel thought about it. Ellen Michaels, the PRI’s secretary-treasurer, was the real power of the organization. Since Mel joined the board nineteen months ago, she had seen evidence of that first-hand. Ellen’s force of will was considerable, and her conversation with Mel was further evidence.

We need you in that patrol car, Ellen had stressed. We need your eyes.

I’m really busy, Ellen. I barely have time to come to our meetings and events, much less ride around with some aging jock for eight hours.

Ten.

What?

They work ten-hour shifts, Ellen said. "But don’t worry, I’ll get you a